


Matchmaker

by petit_moineau



Series: Partout [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petit_moineau/pseuds/petit_moineau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre flew in just as the lecture began, glasses fogged from the sudden shock of temperature.  Even with somewhat diminished vision, he could make out Jehan simply because his floral-printed button-up glowed like a beacon.  Somehow during the lecture Combeferre’s hand ended up between Jehan’s, and a complicated trellis of snapdragons, Virginia creepers, and intermingled Latin and Greek phrases wound its way from the pen in Jehan’s hand up Combeferre’s arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matchmaker

Jehan rested his chin on top of his book, staring at his tea intently.  And he sighed…and sighed…and sighed.  Eventually even Musichetta, who had been singing while she washed dishes, noticed.

She pulled a cookie out of the case and slid it to him with a smile.  “What’s wrong, dearest?  You’re brooding.”

He looked up at her miserably.  “It’s terrible, Chetta.”

“I can see that,” she deadpanned.

“But it’s wonderful…I’m in love,” he blushed.

“Again?”  She stifled a giggle as he glared.  “Okay, okay.  Tell me all about him.  Or her.  Or whichever.”

At that, Jehan flushed a color of red that Musichetta thought was only reserved for nail polish and traffic lights.  “Erm…well...I mean…”

“Twenty questions it is, then.  Male or female?”

“Male…”  Jehan sank a little deeper in his seat.

“Do I know him?”

“Yes…”  If he sank any lower, he’d soon be under the counter.

Musichetta slapped the counter triumphantly.  “Then it’s Combeferre.”

Jehan shot back up in his seat.  “But how did you…?”

She ticked off the names on her fingers.  “It’s not Joly or Bossuet, because they’re all mine and that’s too tragic-love-affair even for you.  It’s not Enjolras because he’s too serious and single-minded.  And taken.  It’s not Grantaire because his self-destructive habits frighten you.  Also taken.  It’s not Bahorel because no amount of love would overcome the fact that he hates Lana del Rey.  It’s not Feuilly because he thinks Polish literature is far superior to French literature and you just can’t stand that.  Which leaves Combeferre or Courfeyrac, and my gut says Combeferre.”  She took a gigantic breath and smiled serenely.

He stared at her, openmouthed and flabbergasted, but thoroughly impressed.  Musichetta was a few years older than the rest of them, but in addition to mothering all of them, she was a silent sentinel over all that happened.  Nothing passed her eye unnoticed.  “Wait a minute,” he said dryly, “what makes you think it’s not Cosette or Éponine?”

This was clearly the wrong thing to say, as Musichetta laughed so hard she grabbed onto the counter for support.  “Oh, sweetheart,” she chortled, wheezing for breath.  When she caught her breath, she treated Jehan to a devilish smile.  “Don’t you worry.  I know just what to do.”

\-----

Combeferre shivered in the entryway for a minute, wiping the snow off his glasses and studying the board Musichetta kept by the door for flyers.  He snorted at the ridiculously high rent of a sublet apartment on the Upper West Side and nodded with approval at the latest Grantaire-drawn, Enjolras-written political flyer decrying the evils of Congress and inviting people to the next meeting of the ABC.  He wouldn’t have noticed the tiny advertisement in the corner had it not been offensively bright.  Squinting at the flowery cursive tucked in between the vines and violets bordering the page, he called over his shoulder to Gavroche, “Did Éponine put this up?”

Gavroche looked up from scrubbing the countertop.  “Nah, I think Jehan did, but she’s probably going, if you’re interested.  The usual, Ferre?”

Combeferre smiled as if at some private joke and nodded.  One of the best things about the Musain Café, other than being friends with the owner, was that it was the only place in the city he knew of that carried blackberry syrup for his lattes.  He pulled out his phone and sat at the bar.

[Combeferre]: Are you going to the lecture at the Metropolitan today?  
[Éponine]: Cosette and I are in Montauk for the weekend.  But you should go and tell me how it is.

Combeferre decided against asking what they were doing in Montauk—it was too strange and the answer would undoubtedly be too long.  He didn’t have an interest in the impressionist influence in American pop art per se, but even when he was buried up to his ears in schoolwork, he liked to go to free lectures when he could.  Some of them, particularly Courfeyrac, didn’t really understand him.  “You’re already double-majoring in biochem and philosophy,” he’d exclaim in exasperation, “what more could you possibly want to know?”  But he’d just smile and shrug.  He grew up in south-central Iowa.  He wasn’t about to pass up the cultural offerings of New York City.

He pulled out his phone as it buzzed against the countertop.  Drawing in a deep sip of his triple blackberry latte, he read the latest text from Éponine that told him he absolutely _had_ to go to the lecture and that she’d pay him in baked goods if necessary.

[Combeferre]: If it’s so important to you, why the hell are you all the way out in Montauk?  
[Éponine]: City is stifling. Don’t give a fuck about pop art. But you HAVE to go.  
[Combeferre]: …  
[Éponine]: Can’t tell you why.  
[Combeferre]: Very compelling.  
[Éponine]: You’ll thank me later I promise!  
[Combeferre]: Will I?  
[Éponine]:  ;)

\-----

“You’re sure he’s coming?” Jehan fretted, picking at the end of his shirt.

“For the thousandth time, _yes,_ Jehan!  Now _please,_ let me enjoy my girls’ day!” Éponine sighed in fond annoyance, clicking her connection off before Jehan could say another word.  He sat down dejectedly, tapping his foot.

Combeferre flew in just as the lecture began, glasses fogged from the sudden shock of temperature.  Even with somewhat diminished vision, he could make out Jehan simply because his floral-printed button-up glowed like a beacon.  His heart thudded painfully, and he swallowed as he sank into the empty seat next to Jehan and elbowed him with a smile.  Jehan blushed slightly but gave him a dazzling smile in return.

Somehow during the lecture Combeferre’s hand ended up between Jehan’s, and a complicated trellis of snapdragons, Virginia creepers, and intermingled Latin and Greek phrases wound its way from the pen in Jehan’s hand up Combeferre’s arm, shirt sleeve pushed out of the way.  Neither of them paid much attention to the lecture, and neither of them minded.  They strolled through the museum after that, Jehan tugging Combeferre by the arm to the antiquities.  He stood in reverent silence in front of medieval tapestries and illuminated books, the slightest of smiles curving his lips.  As they turned to leave, Jehan’s hand shyly entangled itself with Combeferre’s.  He didn’t mind.

They walked through Central Park, and Combeferre laughed as Jehan stood with his head tilted up to catch snow on his tongue.  Snow wasn’t a big deal to Combeferre, who saw as much as two feet at a time fall in Iowa multiple times a winter, but Jehan was from Georgia, where, he assured Combeferre, it seldom snowed, but rained all winter long.  “You know,” Combeferre said suddenly, interrupting Jehan’s impromptu ode to snow.  He ignored Jehan’s murderous glare.  “You have written a love poem to everyone we know.”

Jehan’s eyebrows raised in alarm.

“Except me,” Combeferre finished.

Jehan’s fingernails took on a new level of fascination as he averted Combeferre’s calculating gaze.

“Why haven’t you written me one?” Combeferre asked, both curious and, if he knew how to articulate it, a bit sad and jealous.  He nearly fell on his backside as Jehan leapt forward and in one fluid motion hooked his hand into Combeferre’s scarf, pulled him down a little, and kissed him.

At some point or another, Jehan had kissed everyone.  He was so free and easy with his affection, which seemed to flow endlessly.  This was why it bothered Combeferre so much that for so long, Jehan had been almost cold toward him.  Combeferre stiffened in surprise for a microsecond, relaxing and taking the shorter boy’s shoulders in his hands.  Jehan tasted of hot chocolate and his lips were chapped.  It wasn’t Hollywood perfect.  But it was enough.

Jehan pulled away suddenly, steamy breath spilling out between them and making him look like a dragon.  There were snowflakes on his eyelashes.  “I have written you poems,” he said dryly, “and yes, I have kissed everyone but you.  But how could I tell you that kissing you would mean something different?”

Combeferre grinned.  “You could do it again, instead of telling me.”

It was so cold Combeferre’s fingers felt close to cracking.  There was bumping of noses and scraping of dry lips and giggling and sighing, and it was perfect.  In the back of his mind, he made a mental note to be Éponine’s slave for a day to thank her for making him go to that lecture.

\-----

“But what if, just maybe, we’ve been wrong about the entire thing and Combeferre’s _not_ gay, he’s just really good at suppressing any and all sexual and romantic feelings?” Feuilly asked thoughtfully.

“He’s gay, trust me,” Courfeyrac grinned lazily.

Éponine choked as she swallowed her coffee the wrong way.  “You slept with Combeferre?” she wheezed.

“Twice.”

“Is he good?” Feuilly asked with a wicked look in his eye.

“Surprisingly so, for someone who claimed to have no experience with men.”

“You slut,” Éponine groaned.

“But…wait…” Feuilly frowned, “does that mean that you’re bi?”

“No,” Éponine answered for Courfeyrac, “it means he’s a horndog who will fuck anything with a pulse.”

Courfeyrac pressed a languid kiss to the soft spot just below Éponine’s ear with a chuckle.  She knocked his arm just a little too hard and he slid backward off his stool with a clatter that was entirely too satisfying to her.

\-----

Combeferre and Jehan agreed they didn’t want to tell anyone just yet.  Nothing stayed a secret in this group for long, and for just a little while, they wanted to keep their—what? Relationship? Love? Whatever it was—to themselves.  So naturally they were greeted with everyone they knew wearing paper hats and shrieking when they went into Musichetta’s that night.  Front and center, Courfeyrac held a poster that said HAPPY FUCKING!  Jehan broke out into a wild fit of laughter and Combeferre flushed so red that his face actually hurt.  Enjolras held out his phone where he had Éponine on video chat, and she blew them both a kiss and a shit-eating grin. 

“But we haven’t…we’re not…we’ve only just…oh, fuck it,” Combeferre grumbled, grabbing a cookie off the tray on the bar.

“As if you thought you could keep it a secret,” Grantaire chuckled.

“As if you really thought Chetta wouldn’t tell _everybody,”_ Bossuet deadpanned.  She swatted at him with her dishrag and he danced out of the way, knocking over a pitcher of water.  She groaned.  Someone, probably Bahorel, flung water at Feuilly, who chucked a bit of cookie at him, which hit Courfeyrac square on the forehead, and the evening degenerated into a play fight that made Musichetta give a shrill whistle between her fingers and threaten to throw the lot of them out in the snow. 

“Maybe it’s for the best that everyone knows,” Jehan remarked on the way home.

“How do you figure?”

He grinned impishly, and Combeferre felt that tug in his gut that he got whenever he looked into Jehan’s dark green eyes.  “Now I can kiss you whenever I want!”


End file.
